


Shut Up

by lillullaby



Category: Bandom, Fall Out Boy
Genre: Established Relationship, M/M, Pissy Tired Andy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-31
Updated: 2013-12-31
Packaged: 2018-01-06 22:47:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 948
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1112427
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lillullaby/pseuds/lillullaby
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>'"If I have to listen to the same twelve seconds of that fucking song again, as he fucks with it on garage-band- we are going to have to look for a new singer."<br/>...<br/>Angry Andy is bad enough. The man is hard to piss off, but once you do it’s like a volcano going off- nobody is safe. Tired Andy was a beast all its own.'</p>
            </blockquote>





	Shut Up

This tour hasn’t been an easy one: they’ve been moving a million miles an hour on red-bull and a dream for weeks now. It’s taken it’s toll on everyone, already bad tempers just getting worse and something was bound to snap sooner or later.

In hindsight, it makes a lot of sense that it's Andy.

Andy is a methodical guy; he can take a shit ton of stress, but he needs his time to process it. Unfortunately, they haven’t had a moment of free time since they left Pittsburgh. Their shows run late into the night, every night and their days are spent driving or setting up. Andy is the type of man who takes his 8-hours of sleep very seriously, and these days he was lucky to get 8 hours in a week. 

Joe is still surprised, though, when Andy comes crashing into Pete and Joe’s bus in only a pair of pajama pants. His eyes are a little crazed (but that might be his slightly skewed glasses), his hair a giant fucking mess where it’s coming out of the pony tail that he wears to bed- moral of the story, he looks strung out and just **done**.  
They were playing video games on the couch, and Andy looks right at Pete.

“It is _your_ fucking turn with him.”, he hisses it out, all venom and hostility. Pete’s eyes grow to the size of saucers, and he just stares back, mouth opening and closing.

“I- What?”

“If I have to listen to the same twelve seconds of that fucking song again, as he fucks with it on garage-band- we are going to have to look for a new singer. I’m going to strangle him with his guitar strings and nobody will know it was me.” Oh, no, wordy Andy. Violent wordy Andy. That's never a good sign. 

This is going nowhere good, fast. 

Joe can see the ‘except us, we’ll know, now that you just told us’ on the tip of Pete’s tongue. Andy’s eyes daring him to say it, daring Pete to fuck with him. Joe has to put a stop to this, pronto. He hauls Pete up by the back of his t-shirt, escorting him toward the door, muttering things to him about pressing his luck. Pete just scrambles out the door willingly. Angry Andy is bad enough. The man is hard to piss off, but once you do it’s like a volcano going off- nobody is safe. Tired Andy was a beast all its own. 

Once Pete is safely out the door, it’s time for Joe to take care of his drummer. Andy is still standing where he was left, but it looks like all the fight had been taken out of him. He was all face, before, and now that Pete was gone the mask wasn’t worth it. Andy is obviously drooping, swaying where he stands. Joe walks up behind his boyfriend, curling a supportive arm around his waist and guiding him toward the couch. 

Joe rubs a hand through Andy’s hair, smoothing it down. The older man practically whimpers at the touch, leaning heavily into it, “I’m just so fucking _tired_ and nobody will be quiet.” it’s mumbled into Joe’s palm, sleeping but still aggravated.

Andy leans heavily against him, all loose limbs and slack jaws, exhaustion taking hold. Joe pulls the glasses off his face, setting them aside for safe keeping. Andy’s eyes are bloodshot with dark, harsh bags under them. Joe wants to wipe them away like yesterday’s make up; wants to fix it, somehow. To kiss it better. But knows there isn’t any instant way to do it. 

So he does what he _can_ do. 

It's like a routine, the way they take care of each other. Any time either of them was sick, hungover, or just not feeling well they did the same thing: pop in Star Wars, hit mute, and allow yourself to become a human pillow. So, that’s exactly what Joe does. 

He fluffs a pillow, setting it on his lap, and that’s all the incentive Andy needs to crawl up and snuggle onto Joe. He pushes his face into Joe’s shirt, and Joe can feel the heat of Andy’s breath against his stomach. It feels just like it does when they’re at home, and he hopes that Andy can find comfort in that.

Joe threads his fingers through Andy’s hair, letting the elastic fall out so he can comb through it. He rubs little circles into Andy’s scalp, knowing it is the fastest way to get Andy to relax. (Andy drank 17 cups of coffee one night and was sure he wasn’t going to sleep for the next week. This method worked then, it should definitely work now, what with the older man being practically dead on his feet) Sure enough, Andy practically purrs, his breathing already slowing down. 

It evens out somewhere around “Power Converters!”, and Joe spends the rest of the evening rubbing along Andy’s back and watching New Hope, his head filling in the lines he’s had memorized since when he was 12. The only sound on the whole bus is Andy’s breathing. 

Andy wakes up bright eyed and bushy tailed the following morning, and takes on the day much easier than he has any other this tour. Pete and Patrick look extremely relieved (Patrick looks a little guilty, too. Mumbling something about wearing headphones next time.) Andy beats the shit out of his drums, and goes for a run to a little organic market 5 miles away, and it’s like peace has been restored to his band. (He also smiles at Joe a lot- and that makes Joe pretty happy, too.)

**Author's Note:**

> Fun to do. The idea has been churning in my head for a while.  
> Trohley cuddles are the best cuddles.
> 
> I need to start writing from Andy’s perspective more often, though. Oh, well.


End file.
